


although it's been said many times, many ways

by medeaa



Series: next year all our troubles will be miles away [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Getting Together, Grantaire's just trying to keep up bless him, Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, Jehan is baby confirmed, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Year's Eve, Oral Sex, Piningjolras, a whole lotta emotional constipation, mistletoeeeee, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 16:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19445602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medeaa/pseuds/medeaa
Summary: Intrusive thoughts of Grantaire's hands all over him have got Enjolras quite distracted. The mistletoe and Courfeyrac's meddling aren't exactly helping.A Christmas miracle, indeed.





	although it's been said many times, many ways

**Author's Note:**

> some alternative titles:  
> \- cum (let us adore him) [omg i'm sorry]  
> \- make the yuletide gay  
> christmas fics are always in season, fools, and don't you forget it

Enjolras sometimes wishes his almighty ability to single-mindedly focus was a little almightier.

It is extremely useful when Courfeyrac is visiting at the flat and he has work needing doing, it was _essential_ to finishing his Bac _summa cum laude_ and getting into la Sorbonne’s Collège de droit, and it is the reason les Amis get anything done come end of term and the rush of academic deadlines. He values his ability to put everything aside and funnel all of his brain power into the task in front of him more than his right foot.

Enjolras just wishes, in this moment, that his focus didn’t keep being distractedly drawn to Grantaire’s hand on Jehan’s waist as they drunkenly waltz to la Cantique de Noël through the middle of Courfeyrac and Jehan’s living room. Broad and steady. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever thought of Grantaire as _steady_. They’d collectively decided on Courf and Jehan’s flat for Christmas Eve because of all the flats with Christmas trees (Courf and Jehan’s, Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta’s, and Marius and Cosette’s), theirs was the only one that wouldn’t sexile everyone at some point in the night (even though Cosette would have been painfully polite about it). It looks like it’s been decorated by a troupe of elves with a vengeance: bold mix of Courfeyrac’s gaudy taste and Jehan’s wealthy background has resulted in wreaths and tinsel draped over every available surface, mistletoe strung at random intervals in the halls. The overall effect should be overwhelming but somehow it just makes everything feel a little more…magical, Enjolras thinks. He’s never really been big on Christmas. It’s a tool used by the State to reinforce Catholic dogma even though France is supposedly secular, and it only serves to fetishize class hierarchy. But the rest of les Amis love it, and Enjolras has to admit, there is something about it. Something that gets you caught up in the spirit. 

They should have gone a step further and implemented a no-prolonged-touching rule, Enjolras thinks a little desperately, because he cannot for the life of him look away from the way Grantaire’s hand, a little bruised at the knuckles, is resting in the dip of Jehan’s spine. He isn’t an idiot, he knows what this means- he just doesn’t know _why_. He grips the handle of his mug of mulled wine a little tighter, feeling his heart constrict a little every time Grantaire shoots someone a messy grin over Jehan’s shoulder. The overheard light is off. Courfeyrac is apparently allergic to anything that he does not deem “festive enough” after the end of term, so the room is lit by candles and the lights from the tree. The glow is soft enough that everything seems a little more intimate. The music they are waltzing to is piping from a speaker somewhere, manned dutifully by Éponine because “you all have a garbage taste in music and I don’t trust any of you to not play Mariah Carey.” Enjolras didn’t keep track of when this feeling of distraction started. It crept up on him, he supposes, somewhere between him noticing the hitch in Grantaire’s laugh when it is not scornful or directed at him, and his perfect execution of a fouetté to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” to spite Feuilly.

Combeferre perches on the arm of Enjolras’ chair, nursing a glass of red. Enjolras wrenches his attention away from the centre of the room where Grantaire is now twirling Jehan around, Christmas socks performing a precise box step even though Enjolras _knows_ he’s well past tipsy.

“D’accord?” he asks. He peers down at Enjolras over his glasses. If cops weren’t pigs, Enjolras thinks that Combeferre would make a formidable prosecutor.

“Fine, I’m just- just tired is all,” Enjolras says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That last oral really took it out of me.”

Combeferre smiles a little, leans in closer. “Are you sure that’s all? You’re wearing your panic face.” Enjolras fights to not look at Feuilly, Jehan, and a very concerned and reluctant Joly being taught how to do an entrechat quatre to fucking Jingle Bells by Grantaire, because _of course_ Grantaire dances as well as he drinks, and drinks as well as he argues. Enjolras’ attention catches on the way his thighs flex as he jumps. Those jeans are very tight.

He takes a pull of his drink to give himself time to compose himself. He turns to look at Combeferre, eyebrows raised. “Can a man not reflect on capitalist Christian hegemony without suspicion or harassment?”

Combeferre snorts into his glass. “Yes, _alright,_ Monsieur ‘ _J’accuse.’_ Just remember that this is Christmas Eve with friends, not a meeting, and if I don’t see you get up and talk to someone in the next ten minutes, I’m going to set Courfeyrac on you.”

Enjolras scowls at him and fights the urge to push him off the arm of the chair and into Bahorel, who is trying to chat up Grantaire’s friend Floréal. Combeferre just clasps a hand on his shoulder and weaves his way over to Marius and Cosette, looking a little bit nauseatingly cute as always.

Trying so very hard not to think about Grantaire’s dancing (and failing, because he’s never been witness to it before and he’s _good_ ), Enjolras finishes his wine and stalks to the kitchen. He sees Courfeyrac with his head stuck in the fridge. The pot of mulled wine is sitting on the hob, so Enjolras refills his mug and then leans on the counter, looking at him. Combeferre can’t set Courfeyrac on him if he seeks him out himself.

He clears his throat, and Courfeyrac jumps. He yelps as he hits his head on a fridge shelf; Enjolras snorts and doesn’t remotely feel bad.

“Ta gueule, mec!” Courf looks at Enjolras. “You scared me.”

Enjolras laughs. “You’re easy to scare Courf, all I have to say is _Scrooge_ and it’s-”

“No, stop, I can’t hear you!” Courfeyrac finally stands, holding a bûche de Noël in front of him like a bomb. A sprig of holly sits on top. “To think all I wanted to do was feed you and you abuse me like this, I plead _animus nocendi-_ ”

“Oh, tais-toi, I’m not here for your food,” - Courf looks scandalised – “I’m here because I want to ask you a question.” Enjolras takes a sip of wine while Courfeyrac looks at him curiously. How should he go about phrasing this? “You get distracted a lot.”

Courfeyrac scoffs. “Your point being?”

Enjolras smiles a little sheepishly. “How do you go about _un_ -distracting yourself?” In the living room, he can hear laughter, the sound of feet landing heavily on the floor, clapping in time to music.

Courfeyrac steals a sip of his wine, balancing the bûche in one hand. Enjolras lets him. “Hmm. Depends what kind of distraction, really.” He pauses, frowning. “Usually I just have to _do_ whatever’s distracting me and then I can put it from my mind.”

Enjolras chokes. Courfeyrac picks up on it. “Ooh, is this a _salacious_ kind of distraction?” He raises his eyebrows lewdly, wiggles his tongue. Enjolras would shove him if he weren’t holding a cake.

“Non, salaud, it’s nothing like that!” Enjolras can feel the flush rising from his neck to his cheeks, tries desperately not to think about _doing_ Grantaire, of _undoing_ those tight jeans-

“You’re blushing!” Courfeyrac exclaims gleefully. “Oho! Come on Enjolras, be a sport and tell us who’s got your panties in a twist!”

He glares at him fiercely. Clutches his mug a little closer. “I am _not_ , and I swear to God, Courfeyrac, if you tell _anyone_ that I asked you this-”

Courfeyrac sets the bûche down on the counter and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, don’t tell me who’s captured your stoic heart. My advice for you, though, remains the same.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras demands. Nervously. He suddenly regrets coming to Courfeyrac for advice.

“I mean that the only way to truly get rid of a distraction is to engage with whatever the distraction is and just _do_ it.” He snickers. “Or _them_.”

Enjolras scowls again. “You’re a stain on the Republic.”

Courfeyrac laughs, carrying the bûche into the living room. “Yes, and you love me for it!”

Enjolras forgoes leaning on the counter in favour of sitting on it, taking a swig of his wine. He should really slow down, he doesn’t want to navigate the métro drunk, but it distracts him from his distractions. Besides, he’s only feeling pleasantly warm, and Combeferre was right that this was a party and that he should let loose.

“Drinking alone? That’s rather a departure from custom, Apollo, usually that’s my line of business.”

Enjolras’ head snaps to the doorway where Grantaire is leaning against the frame, empty beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His heart swells again and he wishes that it would _stop_ \- he’s not the fucking Grinch for goodness sake. But there’s just something about the way that Grantaire’s hair falls into his eyes, the stupid penguin-covered Christmas sweater he has on over a tight black shirt. Something that makes Enjolras want to do stupid things. Rash things. _Distracting_ things. He has _no_ idea where these thoughts came from and he doesn’t know how to master them; only three days ago they were having another argument at le Musain. Well. The one three days ago was more a fight than an argument. 

“Don’t call me that,” he says, but it comes out without any of the bite he meant it to. Grantaire looks surprised and his face is open for a rare and glorious second. It’s closed again with a sarcastic smirk.

“What, going to have a go at me again for being a good-for-nothing drunk?” He tilts his head, considering. “Or are you going to interrogate me about why I even bother to turn up? Nobody loves the light like a blind man, Enjolras. You should know, O priest of the ideal.” He’s gearing up for another fight, but the grace in his leaning body is distracting Enjolras too much to marshal his thoughts into a rebuttal. He’s not even sure he wants to rebut.

He thinks about the fight that had erupted halfway through their meeting at le Musain, three nights ago. _Are you capable of being good for something?_ He thinks of Grantaire’s reply. _I have the vague ambition to be_. The other Amis had fallen tense and silent. They were used to their arguing, but it usually did not contain so much bitterness behind it. He doesn’t even know why he had been so frustrated. He was just tired of Grantaire’s disruptions, he supposes. Different than distractions, because he’s feeling some kind of way right now and it’s _not_ the kind of frustration he’s equipped to deal with.

_You don’t believe in anything_ , he had hurled at him.

_I believe in_ you, Grantaire had hurled right back. And then, _now, if you’re done, kindly let me fuck off in peace, merci._

Enjolras shakes his head. “I-” he hesitates, “no, it’s Christmas Eve, Grantaire. Let’s not do this now.”

Grantaire opens his mouth. Closes it. Enjolras thinks vaguely that he’s never actually avoided an argument with Grantaire without outright ignoring _him_. His face goes slack. It’s almost a smile, and Enjolras likes it so much that it prompts him to say, “And- I’m sorry for what I said. The other night. It was out of line and you deserve more respect.”

The bottle nearly slips from Grantaire’s hand before he notices that his grip has gone slack and grabs at it. He looks at Enjolras with an expression that he can’t decode. “Is this a fucking Christmas miracle? Godlike Enjolras of the winged words apologizing to his humble servant?”

Enjolras gets angry again. “Don’t be an ass about it, can’t you be serious?” He sets his mug down on the counter too hard. Their friends in the next room are loud enough that it’s not noticeable to anyone else. He still can’t take his eyes off Grantaire. He wishes that Grantaire didn’t construct sentences like he was reciting poetry. He always forgets that Grantaire is well read, that Grantaire is _smart_ , that he pushes him because he keeps pace easily and thinks of things that Enjolras does not. He wishes he could stop fixating on these intrusive thoughts about all these things Grantaire _is_ good for. Good at. (Enjolras is a man of discipline, and discipline and distraction don’t mix without corollary).

“I mean it,” Grantaire says. “It would take a Christmas miracle for the likes of you to admit that to a fool like me.” He goes to take a swig from the bottle and frowns when he sees that it’s empty. Habit, Enjolras supposes.

Enjolras fishes another mug out of the cabinet behind him and fills it on autopilot. Thrusts it towards Grantaire. “Here,” he says, not having the faintest clue what he’s doing. Grantaire looks just as confused. He wishes that his heart would slow down. His palms are starting to sweat and he _does not like_ this feeling, thank you very much. _Especially_ since it’s Grantaire, and he has never once in his life known how to be casual around Grantaire without outright ignoring him. Here is his corollary.

“Encouraging me to drink more, Apollo? The world really has turned on its head.” Grantaire makes no move to take it from his hand.

Enjolras huffs. “Just- Grantaire, please. A peace offering?” He holds it out more insistently, watches as Grantaire leans forward to take it, wants to ignore how his heart thumps when their fingers brush against each other. Enjolras has always been able to shove his distractions aside and focus on what he needs to do, and it’s driving him insane that suddenly he can’t. _The only way to get rid of a distraction is to do it_ , he hears Courfeyrac saying in his mind, and flushes. He hopes that Grantaire doesn’t notice, but the light in the kitchen is fluorescent and harsh and there is no way that Grantaire doesn’t notice it if Enjolras can individually pick out the dark hairs curling at the neck of Grantaire’s shirt-

“Merci,” Grantaire says quietly, and Enjolras’ gaze snaps back up to his face. There’s a flush on Grantaire’s face now to match his own, and oh _merde_ he’s made things weird, he’s never been able to be casual around Grantaire why did he think it would be any different now that he’s _feeling things_ -

“De rien,” Enjolras gets out before he’s sliding off the counter, spilling a little of his mulled wine in the process but that’s fine, he’ll clean that up later once Grantaire has left the kitchen, and he’s slipping past Grantaire and trying his damndest not to brush against him but of course he does because Courf and Jehan’s kitchen doorway wasn’t made for two people and the points of contact all along his body where he does not manage to clear Grantaire’s _burn_ – “I’m going to get some of Courf’s bûche de Noël, he was whining about it to me earlier.”

Grantaire says the absolute worst thing behind him. “Oh, I made it. Brought it over this afternoon.”

Enjolras spins to face him, feeling slightly crazed. “You- _you_ made it?”

Grantaire gives him a small smile, bows the slightest bit. “Don’t look so surprised, Apollo, I’m not entirely useless. I can also be used as a bad example.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I just didn’t expect you to be the type to make Victoria sponge.” Enjolras wants nothing more than to escape from Grantaire’s (mocking?) smile, wants nothing more than to stay and gaze upon him until his legs give out. Wants to _scream_.

_Thinking about Grantaire making you scream?_ a voice in his head says. It sounds suspiciously like Courfeyrac.

“It’s génoise sponge, I’ll have you know.” Grantaire takes a sip of his mulled wine, places his empty bottle on the counter. “Anyhow. Don’t let me keep you from it, I’m sure it’s much better company than me.”

“No, Grantaire-” Enjolras doesn’t want him to misunderstand, he’s not leaving the kitchen in a rush because he doesn’t like him, quite the opposite-

Grantaire has already turned his back and walked towards the sink. Enjolras sees with a thrill of fear (of disappointment) that there’s a bunch of mistletoe fixed above the door that Grantaire didn’t notice. He flees to the living room and tries not to agonise. He doesn’t succeed. (He also doesn’t succeed at not thinking about what might have happened had Grantaire seen it.)

“Enj! Mon ange!” Courfeyrac shouts once he reaches the table with food, most of the cake gone.

Combeferre approaches behind him, Joly in tow. “I see you’ve migrated,” he says cutting a slice of cake and shoving the flimsy paper plate he puts it on into Enjolras’ hands. It has reindeer on it.

“If only to prevent your complicity in a violation of the Geneva Convention,” Enjolras spits back good-naturedly, poking at the cake in front of him with a fork.

Combeferre grins at Courfeyrac, who is busy stringing tinsel around Bahorel’s neck. He glances at Enjolras, still smiling. “There’s no war, nothing Courfeyrac does to you would be in violation of anything.”

“There’s always war where there’s injustice,” Enjolras says to him, before eating a piece of Grantaire’s bûche de Noël. And Christ, he closes his eyes, it’s indecently good. He adds _incredible baker_ to his new list of things that Grantaire is surprisingly and unfairly good at. _Are you capable of being good for something_ echoes back to him, and suddenly Enjolras doesn’t just not want to fight with him, he’s properly ashamed. It makes his heart feel like lead. He listens to Combeferre and Joly talk about the classifying examination for a while, eating his cake, before he slips away to the bathroom. His plate gets set on a side table crowded by Jehan’s books.

The door clicks shut quietly and Enjolras look at himself. Cosette had coaxed him into wearing a Santa hat during dinner and there are still bits of white fluff stuck in his hair. The wine he’s drunk has left his cheeks rosy.

He has never, ever, given Grantaire more attention than it takes to dismiss him or argue with him. He’s been absolutely terrible about it, as far as he can tell, now that he thinks about it. _To be fair_ , he thinks savagely, _it’s not as if Grantaire has been any different to me_. But no, that’s not true, he concedes, because Grantaire always does as he asks, if belligerently, he’s always listening even though he never does much else. He wonders why Grantaire _does_ bother to come to meetings if he knows Enjolras is just going to shout at him for drinking the whole time.

He wants to apologise to Grantaire and have him accept it without sarcasm, wants him to know that he really is sorry and that he’ll be more mindful of himself in the future. Except that’s not all he wants. Enjolras supposes that this is really the first time he’s properly payed any attention to Grantaire that isn’t scathing. It’s the first time he’s been distracted by him not because of what he’s doing to be contrary, but because of him. And it’s normal that he’s fazed by it; paying attention to him in the way he would Courfeyrac or Combeferre is bound to make the things he notices seem more than they are.

Except…not. Enjolras closes his eyes, tips his forehead against the mirror. He’s sidestepping the issue and he knows it. Noticing Courf or Ferre and _noticing_ Grantaire feel very different (as it should, he’d never want to fuck either of them).

_Oh,_ Enjolras thinks, and feels his flush rising again. He isn’t blind, he knows that Grantaire is fit from dancing and from boxing and from gymnastics, knows that he likes tight jeans and wearing his shirts with one too many buttons undone. He’s just never really given it much thought, never thought of these details as anything other than distractions, irrelevant details.

He doesn’t want to linger on the thought that he’s this attracted to Grantaire after paying attention to him _once_. He just has to get a grip on himself and figure out how to push these feelings out of his focus like he normally would. It’s fine. He can do this.

He swings open the door and finds himself face to face with Grantaire.

His composure slips away like water through cupped hands.

Grantaire blinks at him. “I wasn’t aware that we were playing the world’s most inefficient game of tag.”

“Not intentionally, in any case,” Enjolras says, before mentally berating himself. Making Grantaire accept an apology from him won’t happen if he keeps saying things that imply that he wants to avoid him. He notices the extra couple of inches he has on Grantaire, how much he likes it. Wants to melt into the floor. He shuffles past him with as much dignity as he can muster before he turns and says on impulse, “Your cake was _excellent_ , by the way.”

Grantaire flushes, surprised and pleased. He rubs a self-conscious hand on the back of his neck. “Thanks. I can send you the recipe for it, if you ever find time such a banal thing as _baking_ in between your whole saving the world gig.”

Enjolras laughs, which surprises both himself and Grantaire. “I’d much rather you made another one if that’s on offer, I’d never be able to get it the same.”

“I’ll bake you another one tomorrow,” Grantaire says hoarsely. It’s dark outside the window down the hall, the glow from the living room the only light filtering into the dark hallway. Enjolras doesn’t know why this whole exchange has been so easy, he’s never spoken to Grantaire without arguing with the man. He likes it. 

Behind him, he hears Courfeyrac whooping, Joly groaning, and Éponine cackling, which means that someone has brought out Twister. Enjolras’ heart is thumping, thumping against his ribs. He doesn’t know how to respond, he wants to apologise again but he’s afraid it’ll feel contrived, so he grips Grantaire’s bicep for a heartbeat and smiles as sanely as he can. Pushes down the feeling of giddiness at the swell he feels under his palm. He turns tail and re-emerges into the chaos of the organising of a Twister tournament, not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed that he didn’t turn around to look at Grantaire’s face.

Several rounds later Enjolras finds himself crouching with his feet on red and green and a hand on yellow, face uncomfortably close to Bossuet’s crotch and Floréal to his back. He can barely breathe for laughing, being fed gougères by Jehan. The wine has gone to his head but at least Combeferre won’t yell at him.

“Okay, okay, ferme-le tout le monde, I’m spinning for Bossuet!” Joly yells over the din. “Bossuet…left hand!”

Bossuet furrows his brow, worried.

“And…yellow!”

Everyone yells and Bossuet groans. He pitches forward a little to lean down and suddenly he’s toppling over, taking Enjolras with him. They end up in a heap on the mat with Floréal shouting “Yes!” and kissing Grantaire on the cheek as he adds another tally next to her name on their makeshift scoreboard. He’s been looking intently into the platter of madeleines or turned to Éponine every time Enjolras’ gaze flits to him.

“C’est le dernier, mecs, it’s Christmas Eve and I want to watch a Christmas movie before it gets too late!” Courfeyrac announces, meeting any complaints with “It’s _my_ house, assholes, deal with it.”

Musichetta reaches into the Santa hat that all their names are in and pulls the slips of paper out with a flourish. “This round is…Joly, me, Grantaire, and Enjolras again!”

Enjolras tries to master the sudden fluttering in his chest when he realises that he and Grantaire are going to be twisted around on the floor. He could just throw this round, pretend to lose his balance, but- he’s not sure he wants to. _Just do it_ , Courfeyrac’s voice says to him. Grantaire, for his part, does nothing but shrug and down the contents of his glass. Joly gets persuaded into playing despite his protests by some words whispered into his ear by Bossuet that make him blush, and Combeferre takes up the spinner.

Joly gets right foot on red, Musichetta right hand on yellow, Grantaire left hand on green, and, “Enjolras, right foot green.”

Enjolras would have just put his foot down on the green circle furthest away from Grantaire but for the way that Musichetta has chaotically thrown herself across the mat to reach blue, which means he’s cornered into stepping onto the green spot right next to Grantaire’s hand. He looks at Combeferre’s socks, at Courfeyrac and Jehan’s Christmas tree, looks anywhere but down where Grantaire is basically kneeling at his feet. There’s a feeling building somewhere south of his belly button, growing warmer by the second and Enjolras bites his tongue because he is absolutely not going to get hard in the middle of this game of Twister thinking about Grantaire kneeling in front of him. He’s already wobbly enough from the wine.

“Grantaire, right leg blue,” Combeferre calls, and Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief as Grantaire turns and manoeuvres himself over.

They continue moving around the mat, Jehan periodically popping more gougères into everyone’s mouths. After Musichetta positions herself in a way that makes Joly so flustered that he trips and knocks her off her feet with him, it’s just Grantaire and Enjolras. Combeferre pauses before he says, “Enjolras, right foot red,” which puts him squarely face to face with Grantaire, who is being offered sips of Feuilly’s beer, casual as you please, practically doing the splits. He doesn’t realise that he is staring until Grantaire looks back at him and flinches a little.

“Odd to finally be on the same level as me, isn’t it Apollo?” he says, drawling.

“Hierarchy is a tool of the State used to subjugate its people,” Enjolras says, lilting to the side. Thoughts of Grantaire’s flexibility make it come out brusquer than he intends. Grantaire opens his mouth to rebut but Jehan stuffs a choux pastry inside. Enjolras laughs and loses his balance.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, stretching out his legs. Grantaire looks at him for a second like he wants to say something, but he moves to congratulate Floréal on sweeping the Twister tournament. Courfeyrac hurries to put on a subtitled version of _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Jehan taps Enjolras on the shoulder where he is still on the floor as everyone relocates, eyes fixed as covertly as he can manage on the arm Grantaire has curled around Floréal’s waist. He looks up; Jehan is smiling thoughtfully.

“You seem distracted,” he says, and Enjolras laughs again, the alcohol in his system loosening his grip on his seriousness. 

“You could say that,” he says. Jehan offers him a hand up and he takes it, brushing down his sweater once he’s on his feet.

“Want to come make popcorn with me?” Jehan asks, and Enjolras says yes if only to get away from his distractions.

“How’s living with Courf been, then, now that you have a term’s hindsight?” he asks once they’ve shoved as many bags of popcorn into the microwave as they can fit.

Jehan hops onto the counter and swings his legs. “Quieter than I thought it would be,” he says, smiling. “But then again, if Marius managed to survive two years of him, I should have expected he might be a little more manageable in private.”

Enjolras looks at the clock and sees that it’s not even 21h. Marius will be leaving with Cosette for midnight mass with Cosette’s father in less than an hour. He was reluctant to let them live together before they were married but Marius has managed to wriggle into his good graces by proving himself a good Catholic. Enjolras is fairly certain that they have separate beds in their flat for appearances’ sake.

The sounds of popping start. “Well, congratulations on surviving a term with him.” He claps Jehan on the shoulder. “Only a few more to go, non?”

Jehan smiles. “Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind living with him indefinitely, or at least until one of us pairs off with someone. It’s nice to not live alone.”

Enjolras nods, thoughtful. “Do you think that’s likely to happen anytime soon? Either of you pairing off?”

“Probably not,” Jehan says with a shrug. “Courf likes a bedfellow every once in a while, but I don’t think either of us are quite preoccupied with anything serious.” He peers into the microwave. “What about you, then, Enj? Any bedfellows to speak of?”

The microwave beeps and he uses it as an excuse to school his features. He yelps when he grabs a bag and the steam blows onto his finger. “Merde!”

“Oh, la la, viens.” Jehan turns on the tap and sticks his finger into the cold stream.

“Merci,” he says, tired of his scattered brain today. Distractions abound and he does not like it.

“You still haven’t answered my question, chéri, I’m not above interrogating an injured man,” Jehan says lightly.

He swallows. “No bedfellows, no.”

“Enj, doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt the truth to be a liar, but do not doubt that I can tell there’s someone in your thoughts.” From the living room, Éponine yells, “Allez, cons, we’re starting in a minute with or without you!”

“Do you have all of Hamlet at the tip of your tongue, then?” Enjolras says fondly. He sighs. “Fine, fine, suppose I do have someone in my thoughts. It’s nothing more than a distraction from the cause.”

Jehan’s sigh could break a thousand hearts. “Oh, _Enj_ ,” he says dreamily, “mon _ange_ , mon p’tit choufleur, loving someone isn’t a _distraction_ , it’s the heart of the revolution.” When Enjolras scoffs he ploughs on. “No, listen to me you donkey, you fight for the cause because you have love for the people, for Patria’s integrity, pour les abaissés. Surely loving someone would just help your love for the cause to grow, non?”

Where Enjolras is the logic of the revolution, using words as tools, Jehan is its goodness, and he uses his words to cultivate such lovely images. Enjolras wants to believe him.

He laughs, reluctantly, acquiescing. “Maybe for you, Jehan, but not for me. The only love useful to me is love for Patria.”

Pulling the bags of popcorn out of the microwave, Jehan piles half of them into his arms. “Love isn’t meant to be _useful_ , Enjolras, it’s meant to be _love_.” With that, he walks out the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Get the rest for me, will you?”

Enjolras stares into the pot of mulled wine. Lets himself _engage with his distractions_ , as Courfeyrac put it. Imagines loving Grantaire, letting himself love Grantaire. Leaving le Musain hand in hand, having Grantaire’s arm wrapped around _his_ waist, exploring those hairs on his chest not with his eyes but with his mouth, stripping him out of his tight jeans, using his tongue to do something much better than arguing with him. Laughing with him. Making him laugh like he does with Floréal, with Bahorel, with Feuilly, with everyone except Enjolras.

His chest is tight. There’s a feeling swelling in him, like a barrel bursting its hoops. _I believe in_ you.

He snatches the remaining popcorn and switches off the kitchen light with his elbow. He resolutely does not look up at the mistletoe he knows is above him. He wonders how many other bunches Courfeyrac and Jehan have stuck around the flat.

The opening credits are playing when he drops the bags in a heap on the coffee table. There’s a mad scramble from everyone without movie snacks to snatch a bag. He has a tendency to forget that they can all just be university students sometimes. The candles have been extinguished; the light from the television casts a bluish glow over everyone’s face.

Enjolras looks for an open space and sees, to his horror (his delight), that the only open space is on the floor in front of Grantaire, slouched at the end of sofa. He’d been counting on (hoping against) the fact that Grantaire would want to sit with Floréal, but Bahorel sits with his arm around her shoulder. He crouches beside the arm of the couch.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he whispers. Grantaire looks at him like he wants to say something, again, but in the end just hums and extends a hand in front of him as if to say, “be my guest.”

Enjolras sits gingerly, back ramrod straight and trying his best to avoid touching any part of Grantaire’s legs (oh, how he wants to). Twenty minutes in, his whole body aches and Musichetta next to him is very politely ignoring his restless fidgeting. He feels every bone in his spine.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels Grantaire’s warm breath on his ear. “You know, I know that the thought of touching me must be repulsive to you but you _can_ lean back. If you want.” Grantaire’s voice is low and soft and hesitant and does _terrible_ things to Enjolras’ heart. He wants to correct him, that the thought of touching him is the opposite of repulsive to him, that Grantaire shouldn’t assume that Enjolras thinks so poorly of him, but his tongue fails him.

Enjolras feels Grantaire lean back into the couch and waits a breath before leaning back, cautiously. He keeps most of his weight on his arms stretched behind him. Grantaire’s body freezes behind him nonetheless, as if he hadn’t actually expected Enjolras to accept his offer. Enjolras can’t blame him; before tonight, he doesn’t think he’s ever touched Grantaire, let alone wanted to.

As the movie goes on, Enjolras eases further and further back until his weight is resting against Grantaire’s legs. At one point he even tips his head against a knee, feeling his pulse thrumming desperately in his temple and hoping against hope that Grantaire can’t feel it. All the tension is his body is somehow both leaching out and holding firm; he holds one knee against his chest, is barely paying attention to the movie. He’s too distracted by the feeling of Grantaire’s shins against his back. To his left everyone is either making grabby hands at popcorn or concentrating on reading subtitles. He feels so removed from it that he could laugh. His blood is racing, racing. He didn’t even know that he had so many nerves in his shoulders.

An unsteady breath makes its way past his lips when he feels the tips of Grantaire’s fingers brush his shoulder. The touch is so light he might have imagined it. An accident, probably. But he pushes back a hair, feeling brave, tries to convey that he can touch more. If he wants. (Oh, Enjolras wants him to.)

Slowly, slowly, his hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck. When his fingers slide up into Enjolras’ hair, he lets out a soft sound by accident that (thankfully, Christ, thankfully) is covered by Combeferre sneezing (“À tes souhaits,” Joly whispers). He’s sure that Grantaire heard it though, he can tell by the way that his fingers twitch. His heart is in his throat. His palms are sweating. He doesn’t even know what’s happening in the movie even though he’s seen it a million times. He’s at once hyper aware of everyone around them and so far removed from the reality of them. Enjolras has never _wanted_ so much in his life, doesn’t know what to do with it. Grantaire’s fingers trace patterns on his scalp; he lets his nails scratch against the skin, lets Enjolras’ hair slide between his fingers. He feels like he’s burning from the inside out. He wishes he could see Grantaire’s face (he doesn’t want to look, he wants to look, he _wants_ ). He’s suddenly glad the room is dark; his face could probably be used as a swatch for le tricolore.

It continues in this way for what feels like ages- at some point Marius and Cosette bid their adieus and leave for Mass and he twists away to wave. When he leans back, it’s against the couch. Grantaire’s legs have parted just enough to fit between them if he pulls in his arms, legs boxing him in. He adjusts. The hand in his hair returns, shaking slightly, and Enjolras doesn’t know what’s passing between them, only knows that he likes it, likes it so much. Likes how fitting between Grantaire’s legs makes him feel small in a good way, in a sinfully good way.

It has begun to snow. Enjolras can see it falling outside the window from the corner of his eye, and warmth washes over him. The lights from the tree cast a faint yellow light over Grantaire’s green Christmas socks. There are candy canes on them. Enjolras feels something suspiciously like _Christmas cheer._

Grantaire’s hand never stills. Once, he _tugs_ , and oh _Jesus Christ_ , Enjolras has to bite his lip and crosses his legs as discreetly as he can. The shuddering breath Grantaire lets out behind him can’t be a coincidence, it can’t. His fingers hesitate, extend and contract once or twice, and then tug on a lock of hair again, harder than before. A whimper slips out of him, quiet as he can manage. He crosses his legs a little tighter, accepts the handful of popcorn that Musichetta has scraped from the bottom of the bag beside him. The knees on either side of him squeeze jerkily, like it was involuntary. Grantaire’s body is shaking around him.

The movie ends, neither of them moving, Grantaire’s hand frozen in his hair, and suddenly Grantaire has sprung up behind him and bolted from the room as everyone stretches and gets to their feet slowly. Éponine is quietly wiping away tears and glaring at anyone who comments, Jehan and Courfeyrac are weeping into each other unashamedly while Combeferre pats Courfeyrac’s shoulder a bit patronisingly, Joly is turning red as Bossuet and Musichetta whisper into his ear from both sides. Enjolras feels paralysed. He feels as though he’s had an out of body experience; he has never felt more like he has a body in his life. He thinks about the way Grantaire’s leg were shaking and gets up without a thought, stalks after him.

He finds Grantaire in the dark hallway by the linen closet, taking deep swigs straight out of a bottle of red that he’s unearthed from somewhere. He’s leaning against the wall, unoccupied hand pressed flat against it like he’s searching for traction. When Enjolras hesitantly pads towards him, he freezes and lets out a shaky breath. There’s just enough light from across the way for Enjolras to see that his eyes are squeezed shut. There’s scruff around his jaw, and Enjolras _wants_.

“We can forget that ever happened.” Grantaire’s voice sounds choked, and no, that isn’t what Enjolras wants. _Just do it_.

“Grantaire,” he starts, reaching out to take the bottle from his hand, but Grantaire is faster, and sidesteps him and speeds back towards everyone else, very carefully not looking at him. Enjolras is left staring into the empty hallway. He looks up, about to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, and sees a sprig of mistletoe tacked to the ceiling. He turns, quietly, and also heads back.

He chats mindlessly with Joly, debates Courfeyrac on Quesnay, brainstorms with Bahorel about how best to deal with police presence at a demonstration. Still, thoughts of Grantaire’s fingers in his hair, of the way he said _we can forget that ever happened_ linger, distract him. At a quarter to midnight, he finds himself sitting in the armchair by the window, the one with a direct line of sight into the kitchen, where Grantaire has retreated to. Avoiding Enjolras. Who is not stupid, and knows when he ought to give someone their distance. _It would take a Christmas miracle_ , Grantaire’s words from hours ago echo, and he’s so very right, isn’t he, because this time yesterday Enjolras would have been grateful for the distance, not upset by it. Grantaire is reacting to this reasonably, Enjolras supposes; you don’t go from constantly arguing with someone to getting half hard at their touch in the space of a few hours without any repercussions. Here again is his corollary.

Snow is falling fast outside the window, building up instead of melting on impact with the pavement like it normally would, like a great thick blanket come to wrap them all up. Enjolras tips his head against the window, the reflection of his hair glinting back in him, and looks out at it pile up. _A Christmas miracle_ , he thinks to himself wryly. The pop of a champagne cork behind him makes his head whip around, seeing Musichetta curse as she catches most of the champagne flowing out of the bottle in the glasses in her hand. Grantaire holds it still, head tipped back in a laugh, cheeks red and dark hair glinting in the fluorescent light of the kitchen. Enjolras can’t stop himself from looking at the way his hand curves around the neck of the bottle, imagining Grantaire holding _him_ still, that same hand curved around _his_ neck-

He flushes. A Christmas miracle, indeed.

He hears Musichetta shoo Grantaire away to go get a towel to mop up the puddle of champagne on the floor and Enjolras thinks, _To hell with it_. He just wants to talk with Grantaire, he still wants to apologize to him for their last fight, doesn’t want to leave the evening on a sour note. (Wants to be around him). He jumps out of his chair and slinks out of the room.

He hears Grantaire rummaging in the closet before he sees the open closet door, blocking his view of what he wants to see.

“Grantaire,” he says firmly, hears his movements stop. After a few seconds of silence and no reply, he repeats himself, louder this time. “ _R_.”

Slowly, a hand curls around the door and closes it. Grantaire is wearing an awful sneer, and Enjolras can finally see how fragile it is, sees the shakiness underneath it. He steps closer, and Grantaire breathes like he’s going to say something scathing, mouth twisting, so Enjolras steps forwards and reaches out a hand again, beseeching. “Grantaire,” he says again, softly. The soft light filtering from across the flat makes the angles of Grantaire’s face softer. His mouth closes, and he looks up at the space above Enjolras’ eyeline. _He looks tired_ , Enjolras thinks, _he looks resigned and that’s my fault._

“I understand if you don’t want to be around me, but please, let me say this first?” He looks to Grantaire for confirmation, and he just shrugs his shoulders.

“I do think you’re good for something,” he says, and clearly this is not what Grantaire was expecting because his gaze snaps to Enjolras’, startled. “I think you’re good for lots of things and I’m sorry that I ever said differently, I think that _you’re_ good, distractingly good, and-” He cuts himself off. Grantaire is looking at him like he’s sprouted antlers. Suddenly Enjolras is overwhelmed by the sight of him not a foot away, lips parted and wearing a jumper with fucking penguins on it-

He kisses him.

Skies clear, seas part, the heavens open. Enjolras can feel nothing but every millimetre of his skin pressed against Grantaire’s, who is holding himself so still that he’s afraid that he’s done something terribly wrong. He rears back as soon as he registers this; he can’t get any air into his lungs, his throat has closed up.

“ _Christ,_ R, I’m- I don’t know wha- _Jesus Christ_ , th-” is all he gets out before a kind of half whine, half groan comes out of Grantaire’s mouth and he’s grabbed the neck of Enjolras’ sweater and pulled him down, his other arm snaking around his waist (finally, _finally_ ). His open mouth closes against Enjolras’, and this time all Enjolras can think about is his _want_. Grantaire’s mouth is desperate and slides against his, hot and wet and champagne bitter; Enjolras loses control over something in himself when Grantaire slips his tongue past his bottom lip and into his mouth, braces his hands against Grantaire’s shoulders and pushes him into the wall. A gasp gets knocked out of him and Enjolras swallows it, tries to take every inch of ground that Grantaire is giving, tries to give as much ground in return. The hand that Grantaire does not have around his waist has snaked its way back into his hair and _yanks_ at the back of his head. A moan gets forced out of him and his hips stutter forward into Grantaire’s; they’re both half hard and he feels Grantaire whimper against him before sucking his tongue into his mouth.

Enjolras pulls away a minute later, gasping for air, chest heaving. Grantaire does not leave his skin for more than a frantic heartbeat, layering a burning path of hot, wet kisses from the corner of his mouth, past his jaw, and down his neck. Enjolras feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest, does not know why he hasn’t wanted this sooner. Grantaire’s mouth has yet to stop, his hands have yet to still. Enjolras tucks a hand under his stubbled chin and tilts his mouth back up and against his. Softer this time. He nips at Grantaire’s lower lip, feels his body press even further into his own, before he detaches himself gently.

“Am I hallucinating?” Grantaire says, manic. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the wall. The bob of his Adam’s apple makes something stir in Enjolras’ gut and he drags his lower lip across the scruff there, relishing the choked laugh he gets out of Grantaire for it. “No, wait, don’t tell me if I am, I don’t want to know.”

“Grantaire,” he says again, softly, softly. Grantaire looks at him like he can’t believe his eyes. “Look up.”

He does, and starts to laugh at the mistletoe hanging above them. Enjolras smiles and presses a kiss to the stubble on his jaw because he wants to, because he can. _A Christmas miracle._ He looks down at his watch and sees that it’s just past midnight.

“Joyeux Noël, Grantaire,” he says.

“Joyeux Noël, Apollo,” Grantaire says back to him, dazed.

They look at each other for a moment, still and in semidarkness, and then Enjolras is smoothing his hands over Grantaire’s shoulders and turning back to the rest of the world. This time, before he rounds the corner, he looks back, and sees Grantaire staring after him, a delighted and confused smile breaking across his face.

“There you are,” Combeferre says to him once he re-enters the living room, “let’s head home soon, le métro is only going to get worse the later we stay.”

“Joyeux Noël, Ferre,” Enjolras says, clasping his hand in both of his. He’s not sure what expression he’s making, but it’s one that makes Combeferre look at him strangely.

“Et Joyeux Noël à toi. Are you drunk, Enjolras? You’re quite red.”

Enjolras beams at him. “Perhaps I’m red, but it’s the red of a dawning world, not of drunkenness.”

Combeferre only rolls his eyes fondly. They make their way round to everyone, kissing cheeks and saying their goodbyes and _merry Christmases_ before turning up their collars and heading into the cold. Enjolras does not see Grantaire re-emerge from the hall before they leave.

He spends Christmas morning fielding calls from his family, nursing a mug of coffee at the kitchen table with Combeferre. He thinks about Grantaire and his lips and his hands and his chocolate bûche de Noël the whole morning, distracted to the point that Combeferre asks him if there’s anything wrong at least three times. He thinks about texting him but he realises that he’s never done so outside of les Amis’ group chat and he feels too nervous to start a conversation. He considers asking Combeferre for advice but decides against it; he doesn’t even know how Grantaire feels about all of this, not really, and he doesn’t want to make what’s happened between them known to any of their other friends without checking. They didn’t really talk about it- their consensus was decidedly more nonverbal, Enjolras reflects with a rising blush. He doesn’t even really know how he feels about all of this himself- these feelings are so new and things yesterday escalated so very quickly. He just knows that he likes Grantaire, likes how he makes him feel, and that they can figure out the rest. _Surely loving someone would just help your love for the cause to grow, non?_

Love is a strong word for now. Enjolras thinks about Grantaire’s smile as he was leaving, and says to himself, _maybe in time._ He’s had no success at un-distracting himself; maybe he just needs to face it head on. But surely Grantaire knows how he feels about him from what happened last night. Enjolras sees the imbalance in their dynamic, thinks that it’s probably the most equitable course of action to let Grantaire decide what happens next. He’d been the one inserting himself into Grantaire’s space all of yesterday- it’s only right that Grantaire gets the chance to choose his own next steps.

Courfeyrac comes over for Christmas lunch with presents; Jehan is at his parents’ apartment in le 8e arrondissement. He arrives at their door holding a tinfoil-wrapped cylinder and wearing an expression of great amusement. “Grantaire dumped it at our doorstep this afternoon for some reason, I figured I’d bring it over because I’m _such_ a good friend and no one wants to say no to Grantaire’s baking.” Enjolras tells himself that he can think about this (agonise over it) after Courfeyrac leaves.

They exchange their presents before lunch, since Courfeyrac had begged them this morning to wait for him. Courfeyrac turns on the radio to a Christmas station; Nat King Cole starts crooning. A small pile of presents from other Amis sit next to them.

“Aha! Oh, thank you!” Courf yells, pulling Combeferre into a bearhug when he unwraps his leather pants.

Enjolras gets handshakes and hugs from Combeferre and Courfeyrac for their respective first edition _Le contrat social_ and matching leather top (“All leather, mecs, no one’s safe from me now!”). He’s dropped off his presents to the others earlier in the week; he’s pleased with the gifts his friends have got him, all incredibly thoughtful. Even Grantaire has gotten him a bound notebook that does not look inexpensive; inside he has tucked a sketch of les Amis at le Musain, Enjolras standing at the head of the table and raising an arm like he’s Liberty leading the people. His breath catches; he has never seen himself depicted so fiercely, with so much obvious care in the strokes of graphite.

He did not put much thought into Grantaire’s present he reflects with a sinking feeling. He’d picked up the first sketchbook he’d seen in the art store and written the most bare bones note he could get away with. 

Courfeyrac insists on roasting chestnuts even though he complains about how long it takes to shell them every single year. Enjolras chops sprouts while Combeferre sticks a casserole dish in the oven to heat up. Les Amis did their big Christmas Eve dinner last night, thirteen desserts and everything, so they’re fine with eating with a little less ceremony today.

At last they send a wine-drunk Courfeyrac back home, and as Combeferre starts sweeping the bits of chestnut that got lost to the floor over the course of the afternoon, Enjolras stands in their kitchen, looking down at the cake Grantaire sent over with Courfeyrac like it’s speaking to him in Greek.

He hadn’t expected Grantaire to actually make another bûche de Noël just because he’d asked him. Surely that must mean something, then? But then _why_ , Enjolras agonises, _why_ didn’t he just bring it to his flat, why did he give it to Courfeyrac to give to him? He screws his courage to the sticking place and texts Grantaire, _thank you for the cake, it was just as good the second time_.

The last days of December go rushing by, and Enjolras’ worry begins to grow out of control when Grantaire does not say anything. He doesn’t want to ask anyone about him, knows that that’s unusual behaviour for him and it’ll lead to questions. He just- he can’t get Grantaire out of his head, is distracted by thoughts of his hands and his mouth and the sounds he’d made and how much he liked his laugh. He even starts missing their arguments, imaging their banter without any of its bite. He _wants_ it. He wants it and he’s beginning to think that he’s greatly misremembered things. Worries that kissing Grantaire had been impulsive and stupid and not what Grantaire had actually wanted, worries that he pressured Grantaire into what had happened during the movie. Worries that he’s been so fixated on feeling distracted by Grantaire that he has not thought enough about Grantaire himself.

He’s sitting on his couch with Courfeyrac’s legs thrown over his, reading an article on his phone when Courfeyrac flicks him on the ear.

“ _Ow_ , Courf, what the _fuck_ what that for?” he says, rubbing his stinging skin.

“Stop moping!” Courfeyrac exclaims, crowding him. “It’s the twelve days of Christmas, Enj, you’re meant to be reveling! Not sitting in your flat brooding!”

“I’m not _brooding_ , I’m reading!” he scowls.

“No, you’re brooding _and_ reading, which is even more pathetic.” Courfeyrac whips out his phone. “It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow, you’re going to throw a party.”

“What? No!” Enjolras says, lunging to steal Courfeyrac’s phone from his hand, but it’s too late. His phone buzzes where he dropped it next to him, showing a new message in les Amis’ group message that says _NYE RAVE AT ENJ AND FERRE’S BRING FOOD BE THERE OR BE SQUARE_.

Enjolras glowers at him, and Courfeyrac scarpers to the bathroom to escape him, locking the door and not re-emerging until Enjolras swears he won’t inflict bodily injury on him.

To his credit, Courfeyrac does take responsibility for preparing for thirteen drunk students overrunning the flat since neither Enjolras nor Combeferre signed up for it. He goes to the store and buys bags full of flimsy noise makers and those silly glasses and hats that have the year on them and golden helium balloons and tubes full of gold glitter that he swears he’s going to smear on everyone’s cheeks when they cross the threshold.

Courfeyrac makes good on his oath the next evening when Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta burst through the door, carrying snacks and several bottles of wine. When they stumble into the kitchen where Enjolras is pulling a wheel of brie out of the oven, they’re tracking gold glitter everywhere. He laughs, and tries to quash the anxiety over seeing Grantaire that’s been eating him up all day.

He’s talking with Cosette when he hears the door open close to an hour after everyone else has arrived, and he knows it’s Grantaire. He hears Grantaire slur, “Gentlemen of the human race, I say to hell with the lot of you!” and hears him laughing with Feuilly and his heart starts pounding a mile a minute again. He forgets what he was saying to Cosette. He’s been worried for the past half hour that he wasn’t going to turn up.

“Enjolras? Is everything alright?” she asks, peering into his face.

He blinks. “Yeah, yes, I just, um. I have to go check on something,” he says, and grips her hand in apology before slipping away to go meet Grantaire (to go lurk behind the corner of the entrance of their flat and steel his nerves). He’s letting out a long breath when Grantaire rounds the corner before he’s ready for it, and the sight of gold glitter stuck on his newly shaved face makes Enjolras’ heart stutter.

Grantaire’s eyes go wide in panic. “Apollo. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes, fancy seeing me in my own flat,” Enjolras spits on reflex, feeling his face fall when Grantaire winces. “No, listen, Grantaire, I didn’t mean that, could I talk to you?”

Grantaire makes a face somewhere between a sneer and trepidation. “What would the mighty Apollo have to say to a wretch not worthy to lick his boots?”

Enjolras winces this time. “Don’t say that, stop. Please, I’d really like to talk with you.”

Grantaire huffs, “I’m too sober for this,” and makes to walk away but Enjolras panics and grabs his wrist. He looks up at Enjolras, shocked, and Enjolras should really not be thinking about how good it feels to be touching Grantaire’s bare skin. He drags him to his room, mercifully not passing anyone, pushes him in, turns on the light, and closes the door. He leans against it, looking at Grantaire looking at him, snarling.

“Please just listen to what I have to say and then I promise I’ll listen to you without interruption,” Enjolras says, feeling his heart in his throat. When Grantaire says nothing, he continues. “I understand if my feelings aren’t reciprocated and if you’d rather keep your distance and pretend nothing ever happened Christmas Eve, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it- thinking a lot about you- and I don’t want to leave things unspoken if they’ve been halfway acted on.” His palms are sweating. He stares at Grantaire opening and closing his mouth, desperate for him to say _something_. He has Grantaire in his room like he’s been thinking (fantasising) about all week, and so far it’s blowing up in his face. “I know that we’ve not historically gotten along very well and that’s partly my fault, but I like you, a lot, and I want to try.”

Grantaire looks like he’s having a stroke. Finally, he chokes out, “You- you _what?_ ”

Enjolras wrings his hands. They’re still facing each other like they’re about to square off. “I _like_ you, Grantaire, in a romantic way and I don’t want to force your hand in anything if that’s not something you reciprocate, and you’d rather pretend like we didn’t- like what happened on Christmas Eve between us didn’t happen-”

Across from him, Grantaire covers his face in his hands and starts laughing. Hysterically, almost. There’s glitter falling on the floor. His shirt is dark green, plaid, unbuttoned just enough that Enjolras can see his chest hair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He has nice forearms, Enjolras notes in his frustration.

“Can’t you be serious?” he snaps, again. Grantaire peeks out from between his fingers at him, looking crazed.

“I am,” he says, rubbing his open palms up and down across his cheeks. He grabs handfuls of his hair, sags forward. “Say that again, Apollo?”

“What, ‘can’t you be serious’?” he demands, incensed.

“No, no,” Grantaire swallows, “the other thing. Say that again?”

“The other-? What, that I like you?” He’s nearing the end of his patience, what part of this doesn’t Grantaire get?

Grantaire cracks a smile, disbelieving. His arms fall to his sides and he hugs himself. “Say it again, Enjolras, just once more?”

Enjolras wants to yell. “Don’t _mock_ me, Grantaire.”

His eyes go wide. “No, Apollo, I’m not-” He cuts himself off. Shuffles forward a little bit. Looks up at Enjolras almost shyly from under his lashes ( _long, dark,_ pretty, Enjolras thinks). “Say it again?” he asks, breathless.

Enjolras swallows. “I like you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire shuffles a little closer to him, still braced against the door. He’s suddenly aware that if they get any closer, he will be pinned against it; it excites him more than he cares to admit.

“Again?” Grantaire asks, reaching out with hesitant hands. They settle lightly on Enjolras’ elbows. At the breath Enjolras sucks in, his eyes flutter closed. “Say it again, please.”

“I like you.” He’s leaning forwards without his permission, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth and filing away the shiver it elicits for later. Grantaire presses closer, holds him tighter. He feels warm, like he’s under a duvet in the summertime. A smile has crept onto his face.

His hands come up to frame Grantaire’s face. Grantaire exhales and says so quietly that he might have missed it from a foot away, “Again.” The air between their mouths is warm, like they’re sharing breaths.

“I like you,” Enjolras whispers, heart going a mile a minute, tingles in his feet, before he closes the gap between them and meets Grantaire’s mouth with his, softly, firmly. He pulls away and opens his eyes to see that Grantaire’s are still closed, brow pinched in awe like he’s having a religious experience. He sweeps his thumbs over Grantaire’s cheekbones, sending glitter to the floor, before he presses a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw. He’s missed a patch of stubble, Enjolras feels, and his heart swells to three times its size. “I like you so much,” he mumbles against his skin, “and I’d like to try getting along better. Together.” He switches sides, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of Grantaire’s chest against his own. He presses another kiss to his skin. “I’d like to try an _us_ , if you want.”

Grantaire ducks his head and captures Enjolras’ lips with his, crowds him against the door. Enjolras slides his hands from his cheeks to the nape of his neck, curling in the hair there. It’s damp, like he showered before coming here. Grantaire licks into his mouth, drawing a high-pitched gasp out of Enjolras that he’s a little embarrassed about, before he breaks away, breathing hard. He looks at up at him with feverish eyes and brings a hand to Enjolras’ cheek.

“God, Enjolras, I’ve been stupid over you for _years,_ what the _fuck,_ ” he says before he kisses him again.

Enjolras jerks back, accidentally hitting his head on the door. “What do you mean _years_?”

Grantaire laughs and wraps his arms around his waist again, drags kisses over his neck again. Enjolras feels his want again, more insistent the sloppier Grantaire’s mouth gets. “I mean _years_ , you _bastard_.”

“Wha- _years_?” Enjolras asks again, weakly. “I thought you hated me!”

“And I thought you were repulsed by the very sight of me,” Grantaire says before he sucks Enjolras’ earlobe into his mouth and he _moans_. He wants to be annoyed at the smirk he can feel Grantaire’s mouth curling into, but mostly he just feels turned on.

“So why- oh _, oh-_ why didn’t you- _ah, merde_ \- text me?” he asks, wanting to be _certain_.

This makes Grantaire pull away, at last looking sheepish. “I’ve been trailing at your heels for years, Enjolras, forgive me if I was a little wary.”

He’s about to retort when he hears footsteps approaching outside his door. They jump apart as if they’ve been electrocuted. He feels flustered beyond belief at the thought that someone could have heard them.

“Enjolras, are you in there?” Combeferre’s voice calls. He looks at Grantaire who whispers urgently, “I’m not here,” before he clears his throat and says, “Yes, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Combeferre says, “we were just wondering where you went. If you’re working in there, Enjolras, I swear au bon Dieu.”

“No, just, just needed a few minutes to myself,” he says.

“Okay,” Combeferre says after a second a silence, “but come out soon, it’s almost midnight.”

Enjolras breathes in relief as he hears Combeferre’s footsteps walking away. He turns back to Grantaire, who’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt nervously.

“Why didn’t you want Combeferre to know you were in here with me?” he asks gently. Grantaire’s fingers curl around his when he takes his hand.

He swallows. “Not all of us are as fearless as you, Apollo, I don’t- I don’t want to go traipsing around making a fool of myself if you decide that you were impulsive and made a mistake.” He’s looking down at his socks, another pair with Christmas patterns.

Enjolras feels something drop inside of him. He brings his hand to Grantaire’s chin and lifts his head up to look at him. Grantaire’s eyes are darting around his face, skittish like a nervous horse. “You’re distracting, that’s certain, but I wouldn’t want this if I wasn’t sure that you aren’t just a _distraction_.” He pulls Grantaire into a hug; he feels him burrow his head onto his collarbone, feels his hot breath against it. “And we can keep this to ourselves for now, if that’s something you want,” he murmurs into his hair.

“You’d permit it?” Grantaire asks him, and Enjolras hums to affirm it.

“Now come on,” he says, kissing Grantaire quickly one more time because he wants to and because he can, “You’re going to make up an excuse about where you went, and I’m going to go play host and then Courfeyrac will accuse me of moping again.” He smiles, and Grantaire smiles back at him. He can get used to this giddiness.

“Think so highly of my ability to deceive?” Grantaire teases him, kissing the space between his clavicles. “And what was that about you _moping_?” He looks gleeful and strangely mollified. “Have you been _moping_ this week, Enjolras? Because I didn’t text you back?”

Enjolras frowns. “Of course not, now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to _go_ ,” he says before he whisks himself away and turns off the light as he goes, leaving Grantaire to cackle in the dark behind him. He fights to get the delirious smile off his face.

Courfeyrac does indeed accuse him of moping again once he resurfaces, shoving a champagne flute into his hand and a headband that says _Bonne Année!_ on it into his hair. “You’re going to enjoy the last two minutes of this year, dammit,” he says, pulling him in to a one-armed hug. Enjolras sees Grantaire emerge from the hall, sneaking back into the living room without anyone noticing, and sends him a smile. Grantaire grins in return, eyeing his headband. 

“It’s almost time, everyone, shut up!” Bahorel calls a little later, and they’ve pulled open the blinds so they can see the fireworks over le tour Eiffel in the distance. Grantaire has migrated to Enjolras’ side, and talks animatedly to Jehan beside him, throwing small smiles to his side every once in a while. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever seen Grantaire so happy around him; he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so happy in his life.

“Dix!” everyone shouts, all looking at the countdown clock on the television. “Neuf, huit, sept, six!”

Cinq. Enjolras shuffles to his right, just the slightest bit. His pinky bumps against Grantaire’s.

Quatre. Grantaire’s gaze jerks to his.

Trois. Their pinkies curl around each other, secret as they can.

Deux. Enjolras smiles.

Un. He squeezes.

“Happy new year!” is yelled out by their friends, and in the clamour of kisses on the cheek and rushing to toast, Enjolras ducks to kiss Grantaire as quick as he can. It sends his heart racing all the same. Grantaire smiles at him in helpless surprise, and Enjolras feels it reflected on his own expression.

“Happy new year, Grantaire,” he says, raising his glass.

“Happy new year, Apollo,” Grantaire says, clinking it with his own. They split off to wish everyone else, and Enjolras has never felt more hopeful for the new year. A dawning world, indeed.

Sometime around half past one, when everyone has had their fill of eating and drinking and talking, they begin to filter home. Enjolras, filled with enough nervous energy to make him feel faint, slides up to Grantaire when he finally sees that he’s alone. Only Courfeyrac and Jehan remain, apart from him, helping them clean up.

“I know that you’re apprehensive about this, but you could stay the night. If you want,” he says quietly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Combeferre will never know if we’re quiet.”

Grantaire chokes on his champagne and goes into a small coughing fit before he says weakly, “Are you asking me to lay with you in the biblical sense and then sneak out in the morning before Combeferre finds out?”

Enjolras gets defensive. “I- only because you want to keep this between us for now. I wouldn’t mention you leaving in the morning otherwise.”

“ _Yes_ , holy fuck,” Grantaire breathes, looking a little like he’s just been told his work’s going to be displayed in the Louvre.

Enjolras smiles helplessly, then. “Right, wonderful, okay, um, move your shoes to my room then, and wait for me there, and if anyone asks I’ll say you’ve gone.”

“Count me in.” Grantaire is practically quivering; he slopes off to hide his shoes without delay.

_Breathe,_ Enjolras tells himself, before striding off to help Combeferre wipe glitter off of every surface in their flat. At around 2h00, Courfeyrac and Jehan wish them a happy new year again, kiss their cheeks à bientôt, and make their way home. Shortly after they’ve seen them off, Combeferre wishes him goodnight and retires to his room without asking him about Grantaire, seemingly not having noticed him disappear.

He turns off the kitchen light and pads to his bedroom, separated from Combeferre’s room by the bathroom. Before he turns the handle, he takes a deep breath. He wants this, he wants Grantaire, and he’s not doing this to get rid of a distraction, he’s doing it because he wants to for its own sake.

He opens the door and shuts it behind him, looking at Grantaire sitting on the very edge of his bed still fully dressed with his right leg bouncing nervously. The overhead light is off but the lamp on his bedside table is on, casting a soft light over his room. His shoes are next to the door, neatly pushed against the wall. Enjolras strides to his bed and sits down next to him. His palms have begun to sweat again.

“Are you sure you want to?” he asks seriously. “You don’t have to just because I asked.”

Grantaire wipes his palms over his thighs. “I want to,” he says hoarsely.

“Good,” Enjolras smiles, before he’s leaning forward and tipping them back onto the bed, licking into Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire’s hands latch on to his hips, and he clambers further on top of him, settling between Grantaire’s legs as their tongues slide against each other. He feels Grantaire everywhere: his thumbs brushing over the strip of skin above his underwear that’s been exposed by his rucked up sweater, his clever mouth drawing breathy sounds from his chest, his hips pressing against his own. Enjolras adds _fantastic kisser_ to his list of things Grantaire is surprisingly good at. He kisses with abandon, kisses like he wants to taste everything he can coax out of Enjolras, kisses like it’s the main event and not a precursor. When Grantaire sucks Enjolras’ tongue into his mouth again, Enjolras can’t help the obscene sound he lets out, can’t help the thrust his hips give. He’s so turned on by Grantaire shushing him that the answering roll of Grantaire’s hips against him doesn’t even faze him. He just grinds down, helplessly, chasing after Grantaire’s mouth and running his hands over his arms.

When they’re both fully hard and panting into each other’s mouths more than they’re kissing, Grantaire pulls away and brushes the hair out of Enjolras’ face with unsteady fingers.

“Please let me suck you off, please, you have to let me suck you off,” he babbles. Enjolras feels a wave of heat wash over him, feels it go straight to his cock.

“Only if you take these off,” he says, running a hand up Grantaire’s leg and across his chest, catching on a button.

“Anything,” Grantaire breathes in a rush, and scrambles off out from under Enjolras so he can strip. He trips trying to get his pants off after he’s shucked off his shirt, and Enjolras snorts unattractively as he takes off his own clothes. Grantaire gazes at him like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, though, and Enjolras takes the moment to let his eyes roam over Grantaire’s body, made muscular and lithe by his years of dancing and gymnastics and boxing, covered in a layer of fine, dark, curly hair. There’s a patch of blue paint on his calf, Enjolras has no idea how it might have got there but it delights him nonetheless. His eyes finish their tour, catching on Grantaire’s cock straining against his stomach, flushed red, before he meets his eyes, and sucks in a breath. As Grantaire stalks back to the bed and sets a knee on the mattress, Enjolras feels a thrill go up in him.

“You look _sinful,_ Enjolras, I could come just _looking_ at you,” he groans quietly, nudging his legs apart to nose along his thigh and licks across his hipbone when he reaches it. Enjolras can’t help the way his leg twitches. “I’m going to take my time worshipping you later,” - Enjolras’ eyes nearly roll back into his head at the thought- “because I think that if I don’t get your cock in my mouth right now, I may die.”

“I’ll permit it,” Enjolras says, and that’s all the invitation Grantaire needs to continue before he’s licking a broad stripe up the underside of Enjolras’ cock. His eyes fall shut and he strains against his urge to thrust up. He brings a fist to his mouth to stifle his noises as Grantaire sets upon him, laving up the sides, circling the head with the tip of his tongue with changing pressure and width, blowing cold air into the slit. He wishes Combeferre wasn’t home. Finally, finally, he takes Enjolras fully into his mouth and hollows his cheeks, swallowing until he reaches the blond hair at the base. Enjolras grabs a handful of his duvet, bites down on his knuckles. Grantaire bobs up and down, the suction of his mouth so mind-numbingly hot and tight and wet that it only takes a few minutes of this combination before Enjolras is panting, “Grantaire, Grantaire, I’m going to come.”

A disappointed whine escapes him when Grantaire pulls off with an obscene pop. He licks the string of spit that dribbled over his lip and Enjolras wants to die. Grantaire has stayed hard, he notes.

“Lube and condoms?” he asks Enjolras, who reaches to rummage around in the drawer of his bedside table and toss them onto the bed.

Enjolras curls up on himself, just a bit. He’s suddenly nervous. He doesn’t want to pressure Grantaire into anything but. “I should tell you that I…have a hard time being quiet si j’suis passif,” Enjolras admits. “So that probably wouldn’t be ideal tonight.” His face would burn even more if it could.

Grantaire grins wickedly at his words as he runs a hand up Enjolras’ thighs and says, “It’s the same for me, I’m afraid. We’ll just have to try something different.”

He circles Enjolras’ nipple with a fingernail, which makes him jerk and shiver. His knuckle is getting raw from how hard he’s been biting down to keep a lid on his sounds. He feels like Grantaire’s treating him like a plaything, toying with him, and God does he like it. “I cannot wait,” Grantaire says with his eyes closed, “to get you naked somewhere you can make noise.”

Enjolras moans in agreement as he gets his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and pulls him up to his mouth again, starting that delicious grind again made infinitely _more_ now that they’re both naked and it’s their bare cocks sliding against each other. He’s still close to the edge, just a few more good thrusts and he’ll be done for. He tells Grantaire as much, and frowns when Grantaire stills them by pressing his hips to the bed with his hands, broad and steady.

“Come on gorgeous, on your side,” he says with a quiet smack to the side of Enjolras’ ass that forces a ragged noise out of him. He freezes and looks at Grantaire above him. “I’m going to bring that up again later, when we can make more noise,” Grantaire says faintly.

Enjolras nods meekly and does as he asks, feeling the mattress dip where Grantaire rests his weight behind him. The sound of the bottle of lube being unscrewed and the _shlick_ of it between Grantaire’s palms as he warms it sends tremors down Enjolras’ spine.

“Keep your legs together,” Grantaire whispers into his ear. He twists to steal a kiss, chasing after him as much as his position will permit. The first touch of slicked fingers over the tight juncture between his thighs makes him jump. Grantaire presses kisses along his neck, brushing his hair away when it gets in the way. Enjolras has never felt so _loved_ in his life. He wants to do more for Grantaire, he feels like he’s been receiving everything and giving very little, but Grantaire seems to know exactly what he wants and exactly what to do. It’s a strange reversal of their roles. Enjolras can’t say he doesn’t like it, either.

After he’s been deemed slick enough, he hears the condom wrapper being torn open and more lube being spread over it once it’s on. Enjolras stares at the base of his lamp, anxious to get Grantaire’s body closer to his own. His arousal is pressing persistently against his leg.

The mattress dips and shifts again as Grantaire shuffles in behind him, placing a warm hand over his hip. “Ready?” he asks, breath warm on Enjolras’ ear.

“Yes, what are you waiting for?” Enjolras whispers, Grantaire’s answering huff of laughter sitting light in his chest.

The head of Grantaire’s cock pushes against the backs of his thighs, which he keeps tight together, and slowly, inch by inch, Grantaire slides in. When he bottoms out, his cock has slid wet and intense against Enjolras’, and they’re both heaving, back to chest, sweat beginning to stick their skin together. The hand belonging to the arm Enjolras is lying on is clenched into a fist; his nails are biting into the pad of his palm. Grantaire’s hand slides to grip Enjolras’s cock, and then they’re off. Moving together, rocking back and forth, Grantaire’s hand pumping him in time with his thrusts. It isn’t long before Enjolras is close to the edge again, smothering his gasps and moans in his pillow. Grantaire grunts into his ear, groans, “Can’t wait to fuck you when we’re alone, gonna bend you over my knee and let you make as many pretty noises as you want, _Christ_ you’re gorgeous like this,” and that’s it, Enjolras is spilling over Grantaire’s hand with a choked sigh of, “Grantaire!”

He pants, spent, as Grantaire hooks his leg over his knees for more traction and increases the frantic pitch of his thrusts. Before a minute has elapsed, he loses his rhythm and comes between Enjolras’ legs, whispering, “Oh, _oh,_ Enj- _oh-_ Enjolras.” They lie together, catching their breath, before Grantaire gets to his feet gingerly and grabs tissues from the dresser across the room to clean them both off. He tosses them in the bin along with the spent condom, and flops back onto the bed, curling up behind Enjolras in an echo of the position they were in a few minutes earlier, pressing kisses to his shoulder.

Enjolras hums, taking one of Grantaire’s hands and interlocking their fingers. He presses a kiss to his knuckles. Turns over to face Grantaire. Leans in to kiss him, heavy and soft. Their mouths conforming to each other.

“Thank you,” he says softly, feeling his lips brush against Grantaire’s as his mouth forms the words.

“For what? The best sex of _my_ life?” Grantaire asks, incredulous.

“For agreeing to try this,” he says, tracing lines over Grantaire’s cheek in the semidarkness.

“I would do anything for you,” Grantaire says with startling honesty. “But it’s getting colder than a witch’s tit, so let’s move this _under_ the covers, perhaps?”

Enjolras kisses him fondly again. He wants to kiss Grantaire just as much as he wants to storm le conseil des ministres, no more, no less. _Surely loving someone would just help your love for the cause to grow, non?_ They clamber under the covers, back to chest again, knees tucked together. Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s heartbeat against his skin, still frantic, matching his own, and he burrows his head against his pillow.

“Will you stay for l’petit déj?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Grantaire says into his shoulder after hesitating. “If you’re this mellow post-orgasm every time then maybe I’ll have to consider telling everyone soon for the sake of meeting morale.”

“Ferme ta gueule,” Enjolras says sleepily, reaching out to turn off the lamp. They’re plunged into darkness, just them and the soft sounds of their breathing and the moon streaming in from the window.

“Goodnight, Apollo,” Grantaire murmurs behind him. He squeezes his hand.

“Goodnight, Grantaire,” he murmurs back, and lets himself drift off. They'll deal with what the morning brings when it arrives, but Enjolras has no doubt that it will have all his focus.

**Author's Note:**

> i poached some things from Hugo to be cheeky: parts of the conversations/arguments that Grantaire and Enjolras have are dialogue from the novel, and the lines "count me in" and "will you permit it?" are from the scene where they die. there are so many PRICELESS descriptions in the novel but hugo writes in this weirdly casual but stuffy way (regardless of translation edition) that makes it hard to use like a normal human being  
> i tried for ~authenticity~ but i only know québec slang and i haven't actively spoken french in like three years so if there are any phrases that are too québécois for a bunch of putes parisiens let me know svp


End file.
